Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  The president of South Korea was as safe as a South Korean could be with red war returning to the peninsula. Of that, there could be to doubt, no question.

  There were bunkers all over the land. But a bunker by its very nature had been rejected as a likely target for bombs. And if the madmen in Pyongyang had developed a nuclear bomb, no bunker built could preserve the life of the South Korean leader if the bunker found itself at ground zero.

  As he sat at a simple card table deep in the lava tubes of Man Jang Caves on the southernmost Korean island of Cheju-do, listening to a shortwave radio, the president of South Korea didn't feel safe.

  He chain-smoked Turtle Ship cigarettes as he wondered if Seoul still stood. If the North had a nuke, they would unleash it upon Seoul. If two, then Seoul would be doubly destroyed. And if Seoul fell under Pyongyang bombs, the Americans wouldn't hesitate to nuke Pyongyang flat. There would be no pieces to pick up after that.

  But the president of South Korea would survive. Even if the peninsula were overrun, he would survive. The entire North would be crushed by the Americans in time, and even if some surviving Pyongyanger controlled Sinanju after all was radioactive dust, Sinanju wouldn't look for the president of South Korea in Cheju-do Island. They would assume him obliterated in the fireball that consumed Seoul.

  But to be certain of survival, there were ROK Tiger Marines stationed at the entrance to the network of lava tubes that in peacetime served as a tourist attraction. His most trusted aide had control of the innermost circle of defense. His second-most-trusted aide controlled the middle perimeter. The outer shield defense belonged to his third-most-trusted aide.

  That was the mistake of the president of South Korea, he soon discovered.

  There had been no warning. No warning was possible. All telephone and other communications using wire were forbidden in Man Jang Cave lava womb. Only shortwave, which could not be traced.

  And since his defense teams had no shortwaves of their own, they were unable to alert him that a typhoon had descended upon Cheju-do Island in the form of a wispy little man.

  And so in silence they fell, unbeknownst to the president of South Korea, who smoked in nervous ignorance.

  The final door was not lava but steel. It opened with no more sound than a breath of subterranean air. Trying to listen through the crackle and static of his shortwave headset, the president paid it no mind.

  The ghostly tap on his shoulder made his heart leap into his mouth, and without turning, he knew.

  "Sinanju?" he croaked.

  A thin, merciless voice intoned, "You erred."

  "How?"

  "For the three rings to work correctly, the most trusted ones must take up the outer ring. For they will fight more fiercely. The second ring nearly as fiercely. Thus, your assassin will be fatigued by the time he reaches the least trustworthy ring, and might succumb." The voice cooled. "Unless your assassin is of Sinanju."

  The president of South Korea groaned, the cigarette falling from his bloodless lips.

  "Turn and face me, man of Seoul."

  Woodenly the Korean president obeyed. He found no strength in his legs and merely turned in his chair.

  The eyes of the Master of Sinanju were like agates of deep hardness.

  "You have come for my life___"

  "No. I have come for your surrender."

  "Seoul has fallen?"

  "No. Nor Pyongyang, either. Your forces own the mountains. But only those."

  "I cannot surrender to Pyongyang and face my ancestors."

  The Master's papery mask of a face softened. "Well spoken. The South is not as spiritless as I have heard. No, you will not surrender to Pyongyang. Nor will Pyongyang surrender to Seoul. But both must surrender so that this conflict ends well and face is preserved."

  The South Korean president looked perplexed. "If neither can surrender to the other, who will we surrender to?"

  And the Master of Sinanju whispered a name.

  Secretary General Anwar Anwar-Sadat was too busy drawing up the formal documents regarding the U.S.-Mexico observer group to worry about the end of the world. The phone rang constantly, and aides scurried in and out to announce this conflagration or that calamity. He would have none of it.

  "I am very busy," he said testily. "It is not every day that I can impose the will of the United Nations upon the United States."

  "But, my General—"

  " 'Mr. Secretary.' "

  "The two Koreas are at war."

  "It is nothing. The Americans will solve that problem, and then we will step in and preserve the peace. Now begone."

  It was late in the day when the under secretary for peacekeeping operations timidly approached the secretary general's desk and said, "The leaders of North and South Korea are on lines three and four. They wish to speak with you."

  "About what?"

  "Surrender."

  The secretary general brightened as much as his stony face would allow. It was not every year two surrenders came his way. First Iraq, now this.

  "Which one? Quickly, I must know."

  "Both. Both wish to surrender. Neither will capitulate to the other."

  "I do not understand."

  "They are Asians. Saving face."

  "Ah, yes, of course. Put them both on," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat, picking up two receivers and setting one to each ear as the under secretary performed the difficult task of working the line connections.

  When the leaders of the two Koreas began chattering in his ears, the secretary general of the United Nations made his voice neutral. But his stony face softened in pleasure.

  By the time this day was concluded, no one would wonder about the incident in the General Assembly again. He was solving the world's problems, alone and without outside assistance.

  A Nobel Peace Prize was certain to be his.

  When he had a working agreement, he returned to his final draft of UNUSMEXOG only to be told that that crisis was over, too.

  "Over! I do not wish it to be over."

  "Nevertheless, it is over. The Mexican forces have withdrawn from the U.S. border."

  "This would have been my greatest moment, the culmination of my service as secretary general. Once the United States submits to the will of the world community, the last obstacle to my one-world order will have fallen like a stubborn domino."

  "There is still the fiftieth-anniversary gala, my General."

  "I would rather have my peacekeepers on the U.S. border," Anwar Anwar-Sadat said miserably.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Harold Smith arrived at work the next morning like an automaton. He had hardly slept. He could barely think. But he was also helpless, and so he had gone home to sleep through the night hoping morning might come, if not for the world, at least for the United States—the only nation not immediately at risk, ironically, because it wasn't involved in the bidding war.

  Remo and Chiun were waiting for him in his office. There was no sign of Mrs. Mikulka.

  "My God!" Smith croaked.

  "Hiya, Smitty," said Remo cheerfully.

  "Greetings, Smith," the Master of Sinanju said in a severe voice. His kimono was a pale gold.

  Then Harold Smith noticed the nuclear device. It was sitting on his desk in the form of a fat gravity bomb not very much unlike the one that had been dropped on Hiroshima.

  "Is that what I think it is?" he said thickly.

  "It is," said Remo.

  "Where did you—er, what is it doing in my office?"

  Remo spanked it once. "Kim Jong II gave it to us in trade."

  "It is the North Korean atomic bomb?"

  "Their only one."

  Smith stepped back and fell into a sitting position on a green vinyl divan. "Why have you brought it here?"

  "It is for sale," said Chiun loftily. "To the highest bidder."

  "Actually we were thinking of a trade," said Remo.

  "Trade?"

  "Yeah." Remo addressed Chiun. "Can I handle this, Little Father?"<
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  The Master of Sinanju nodded. "Do not fail, because the lives of my villagers are hanging in the balance."

  "It's like this, Smitty. The good old USA has locked an ICBM on Sinanju. We want it declared a nontarget."

  Smith started. "Where did you hear this?"

  "Check it out if you don't believe me."

  Harold Smith did. He rushed to his desk only to realize he couldn't access his system because of the bomb.

  "Er, Remo. Could you… ?"

  "Sure," Remo said brightly.

  Stepping up, Remo wrapped his arms around the ungainly device and lifted it up and away. It went thunk on the hardwood floor.

  "Be careful with that!" Smith gasped.

  "Relax. It's not armed. At least, that's what they told us."

  Smith booted up his desk computer and worked diligently for several minutes. He became utterly oblivious to his surroundings. When his patrician face came up, his gray skin was two shades paler and his voice had a frog in it.

  "I can confirm that an SS-20 missile is currently targeted on the village of Sinanju. But why?"

  "Washington thinks it's a secret-weapon installation."

  "Where do they get that idea?"

  "Pyongyang announced it controlled a secret weapon it called the Sinanju Scorpion," explained Remo. "Someone found Sinanju on a map, checked it out by satellite, noticed the three-lane highway Kim II Sung built for Chiun's convenience and decided the Horns of Welcome had to be some kind of death thingy."

  "They are more correctly called the Horns of Warning," said Chiun.

  "You've been to Sinanju, Smitty. You know what I'm talking about."

  "Isn't it a natural rock formation?" Smith asked.

  Chiun shook his aged head. "The rock is natural, but Master Yong carved it into the shape that welcomed seafaring clients and warned invaders that here was the inviolate seat of the Master of Sinanju. Ever since Yong, Korea has been conquered many times, but my village remains forever free."

  Smith's prim mouth tightened to a bloodless knot. "You mentioned a trade."

  "Yeah," said Remo. "According to Jong, this is the North's only nuke. It's yours if you de-target Sinanju."

  "Done," said Harold Smith.

  Remo blinked. "Can you do that?"

  Smith nodded firmly. "Either through secret channels or directly through the President, but I assure you both it can and will be done."

  "Good," said Remo, satisfied.

  "Er—will there be anything else?"

  Remo eyed Chiun and the Master of Sinanju nodded silently.

  "We're still on the open market," said Remo.

  Smith wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "I know. The planet is on the brink of global conflagration as a result."

  "We've kinda been away from cable these last couple of days. But the good news is that we defused the Korean crisis."

  "I can suggest the President redouble his efforts to secure funding to reactivate your contract."

  Chiun piped up. "Triple."

  "Triple," Smith blurted.

  "Triple. For we are secret weapons now, sought mightily by nations across the face of the earth."

  "Will you accept diamonds and other valuables in supplement for half of the gold involved?"

  "No. The House no longer accepts diamonds, for they are not truly valuable or rare. I have been told this by no less than PBS, whom some conspirators are attempting to suppress."

  "One-third silver?" Smith said hopefully.

  "No. No silver, no electrum and no aluminum."

  "Aluminum?"

  "A Master made an error," Chiun said blandly. "He thought he was being paid in a rare new metal. He later discovered it was only new."

  "I see," said Smith. "And which Master was that?"

  "His name does not matter," Chiun said testily. "It is enough to know he was young at the time and later learned from his mistake, bringing great wealth and fame to the village. His name will one day be writ large in the Book of Sinanju."

  "It was Chiun," Remo whispered to Smith. "One of his first assignments. He's still embarrassed about it."

  "Cease whispering," Chiun spat. "Now I must have your answer, Smith."

  Harold Smith swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed.

  "I will see what I can do," he said, reaching for the red telephone link to the White House.

  The President of the United States was firm. He was direct. He was decisive.

  The combined Joint Chiefs of Staff barely recognized him.

  "The crisis is over," he said flatly.

  "Which one?"

  "All of them. The Iraqis have surrendered, the South Koreans have withdrawn to the Thirty-eighth Parallel, Macedonia and the Balkans have subsided and the Mexican army is withdrawing from our border, with apologies."

  The Joint Chiefs of Staff were so stunned they were at a loss for words.

  "And we have come into possession of the only nuclear weapon developed in North Korea," he announced.

  The generals regarded one another doubtfully.

  "Are you certain of your facts?" asked the JCS chair.

  "It's ours," the President said firmly.

  The secretary of defense couldn't conceal his disbelief. "The North surrendered their only nuke, with the South Koreans knocking at their gates?"

  "That's all I can tell you at this time."

  The JCS absorbed this information in a pregnant silence.

  "We also have an opportunity to acquire the technology that is sweeping the globe," the President added.

  "Do we know what it is?"

  "I know what it is," the President said forcefully.

  "Please share it with us, Mr. President," the secretary of defense said.

  "Sorry. It's classified."

  "From us?"

  "That's the way it has to be. Now we can acquire this technology, but it's going to cost us."

  "I think we should pay any price. Don't you agree?"

  "Absolutely. Once we have one of these things, we have parity with other nations. We have to have parity. It's imperative."

  Everyone agreed parity was imperative even if they didn't know what the secret weapon under discussion actually was.

  "We're going to have to buy it," said the President.

  "Fine."

  "Once we have it, the mere possession of this weapon will effectively render the secret weapons in other hands absolutely impotent."

  "It's that powerful?"

  "It's that powerful," the President said in a steely voice. "But it's going to be an expensive acquisition."

  The secretary of the Navy pounded his fist on the table and said, "Weil pay any price, endure any sacrifice."

  And the President smiled coolly. "I'm glad you gentlemen said that, because you're all going to have to pony up if we are to acquire the Sinanju Scorpion."

  "Er—how much we talking about here? In round numbers?"

  The President named a figure.

  The secretary of defense was indignant. His face turned bright red. "Defense can't afford that!"

  "The defense of the United States can't afford to let this opportunity go sailing past us, never to return," answered the President.

  The JCS swallowed hard, their Adam's apples bobbing dissynchronously.

  "Well, we can scratch that next batch of submarines," the secretary of the Navy muttered.

  "We can close a few more bases," said the Air Force chief of staff.

  "I never did like the Osprey," said the commandant of the Marines. "Damn thing flew like a one-winged pelican."

  "It's for the good of the country," the President assured them all.

  "It's a mighty big hit," complained the secretary of Defense, crunching the numbers on a notepad.

  When the meeting was over, the combined Joint Chiefs of Staff had agreed to divert a significant percentage of their next year's budgets to a bank account in the Cayman Islands.

  When it was done, the JCS chair asked, "When do we take delivery?"
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  "We don't. I do."

  "But we have to analyze it. Break it down. Do reverse engineering and mass replicate it."

  "Won't work. I'm going to take possession and keep it in reserve."

  "What about command and control? What about the chain of command?"

  They tried every argument including a constitutional one, but the Chief Executive stubbornly refused to budge.

  "When the money's in the vault, America will be safe and secure once again," he promised.

  As he rose to leave the Situation Room, the JCS chair had only one last question. "Just tell us this—is it nuclear, chemical or biological?"

  The president smiled. "Biological. Definitely biological."

  Chapter Forty-eight

  It was the next day that the Master of Sinanju began to unpack the things he had packed in anticipation of leaving America forever. His apprentice, the next Reigning Master of Sinanju if he performed correctly in all his duties, prepared duck and the short-grained rice favored in the northern mountains of Korea.

  When the food was served, the Master took his seat at the low taboret and, sampling everything once, pronounced it good.

  His pupil smiled.

  "All has turned out as it should," Chiun said.

  "I think so, too," said Remo.

  "There is only one thing more."

  "What's that?"

  "I have not told you the story of the stonecutter."

  And the Master was pleased to see his pupil lay down his rice bowl and silver chopsticks and sit up attentively despite his prodigiously embarrassing appetite for food.

  "There lived in old Chosun in the days of Prince Chu Tsu a simple stonecutter," he began. "Every day of his life he cut obdurate stone into blocks that other men purchased. His toil was long and arduous, and as the years of his life passed he grew to despise his miserable lot.

  "Now, the toil of this stonecutter was difficult and produced only rude stone blocks, from which other more skilled artisans erected buildings and statuary and other fine things. His chisel made marks in the stone of Diamond Mountain, but the stonecutter made no mark upon the world.

  "One day a yangban came through his village, a nobleman of high degree, and seeing the people bow and scrape before this yangban, the simple stonecutter grew jealous and resentful. So he went to the mountain from which he carved his stone blocks and prayed to Sanshin, the spirit of the mountain, to make him into a yangban with much wealth and property and respect.